“Don’t move,” Artemisia ordered. “You’ll change the way the light strikes your upraised arm.” “If I don’t move, my upraised arm is like to fall off,” he complained. She glanced at the mantel clock. “We have been at this for better than an hour,” she conceded. “Very well. Let’s take a break. The tea should still be hot and I asked Cuthbert to bring round some extra scones. You’ll find them under the silver tray.” Thomas Doverspike rose to his feet and donned his robe before helping himself to the offered pastries. Artemisia draped the canvas to keep dust from settling on the fresh paint. With countless coal fires burning, London was ever so much dirtier than Bombay. She poured out two cups of tea, laced his with an extra lump of sugar just as she’d learned he liked it and poured a smidgeon of cream into hers. “How’s it coming?” he asked between cramming bites of the flaky scones into his mouth. “It’s taking shape.” Artemisia blew on her tea to cool it before she sipped.
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